


Water Cold

by baranduin



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Quest, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:04:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What were the members of the Fellowship all doing that last summer before all made their way to Rivendell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the 2014 Back to Middle-earth Month fest, Seasons of Middle-earth. I was given summer as my season to write for, with the following prompt from _The Children of Hurin_ : "There the air was cool and there wayfarers in summer would rest and drink of the cold water."

**Shire Reckoning 1419, Near Midsummer, Minas Tirith**

 

The evening air was soft and warm. The Fellowship had reached the “filling up the corners” stage of the meal they were sharing in Gandalf’s garden. They were all there except for the one who had fallen at Amon Hen. In Boromir’s place sat Faramir. It seemed right that he should be there, and not only because he was Boromir’s brother.

“Another slice of tart, Captain Faramir?” Sam asked. 

Faramir groaned but did not turn down the tempting slice of plum tart Sam deposited on his plate. “Don’t want it to go to waste,” he said and picked up his fork. 

They all sat in comfortable silence while Faramir manfully dispatched the tart. A few nuts were cracked and the meats picked out and nibbled by Merry and Frodo. Aragorn, Gimli and Gandalf lit their pipes and leaned back, blowing rings contentedly. Legolas wandered the garden, humming under his breath. 

It was Pippin who finally broke the silence. “Hard to believe it’s only been a year.”

Everyone nodded in general and the silence began again, each busy with their own thoughts of what “only been a year” meant to him.

Eventually Pippin spoke again, his voice a little dreamy. “Do you remember last summer, Frodo?”

“Reasonably well,” Frodo said, looking sideways at Pip and smiling. “Care to be more specific?”

“I was thinking about that walking trip to Bindbole Wood we took.”

Frodo’s expression grew a little solemn. “Yes. That one. It was the last walking trip I took in the Shire … well, until I left it …”

“Now look what I’ve done. I didn’t mean to make you feel sad. I’m so sorry, Frodo.” Pippin touched Frodo on the shoulder, shaking his head in regret.

“No. You didn’t. I just hadn’t thought of it in, oh, in ages. It was a good trip.”

Merry said, “You enjoyed yourself, Pip, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes!”

“Even though there were no inns?”

A tossed walnut shell tapped Merry precisely on the tip of his nose. Pippin always did have a good aim.

After the laughter died away, Gandalf set down his pipe, cleared his throat and spoke. “I suspect we all had an interesting time last summer. Let us share our memories, my friends. You begin, Frodo.”

Frodo leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, looked at up the stars that were beginning to appear in the sky and began his tale.

***

**Shire Reckoning 1418, Midsummer and After, Various Locations**

 

Frodo stood at the top of the hill and mopped his face with his handkerchief.

“Hoy! Frodo! What do you see? Where is that inn you promised?”

That was Pippin, his voice high and clear. Frodo looked back and saw Pip, Merry and Sam still toiling up the hill, their faces red and shiny. The day was that hot and fine, as fine a summer’s day as one could ask for. Still … a drink of something, preferably from the beer family, would not come amiss. Though an inn … that was a tall order.

With a few more strides, the three joined Frodo at the top of the hill. They stood and surveyed the land all around while they caught their breath and wiped the sweat from their faces. Moorland lay all about them and the sky was a clear blue without a hint of cloud. Here and there were neat patches of farmland, all encircled by the moors that were in full bloom, the heather forming a sea of purple. 

Pippin sounded a bit dismayed when he spoke. “No inns. I thought there would be inns. Why did I let you talk me into coming this way?”

Frodo laughed and clapped Pippin on the shoulder. “This part of the Northfarthing isn’t exactly bustling with villages and inns. Still … where’s your sense of adventure?”

Merry snorted. “I think it disappeared when he drank the last drop from his water bottle.”

“Looks like woods not too far ahead, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, who stood peering north, his hand shielding the glare of the sun from his eyes.

“Yes, that’s where we’re headed,” Frodo said. “I’ve been in Bindbole Wood a time or two, it’s a nice, quiet patch of forest. I think you’ll like it. I hear badgers can be seen there occasionally. Perhaps we’ll get lucky.”

“Well, it’ll do for me if it’s hiding an inn,” Pippin said. “Shall we?” He resettled his pack on his shoulders. 

They started off in single file, following a footpath that had been made many years before by both two-legged and four-legged creatures. Pippin stooped once and plucked a sprig of heather, tucking it in his buttonhole before saying gaily, “Lead on, cousin!”

And lead Frodo did. An hour’s march found them reaching the eaves of the wood. The others stopped once they found a bit of shade, dropping their packs and stretching to ease their shoulders, but Frodo went on a little further until he was out of sight and hearing of his friends.

Then he stopped and stood quietly, listening. At first there was nothing to hear but birds singing and leaves rustling. It was a pleasant sound and Frodo savored its music. But then another note joined the mix. “Ah!” he said to himself, smiling with pleasure, and pushed on until he reached a small, dimly remembered glade.

Yes, there it was. He remembered it now. It had been just such a day as this, a fine hot summer’s day and he’d been tired from walking for hours and had been more than a little thirsty. The stream that bubbled gladly in its bed and fell into a little pool had been a welcome sight indeed. The pool was deserted today as it had not been the other time, but Frodo didn’t care. He was thirsty. 

He knelt in the soft dirt at the edge of the pool and, using his hands as a cup, drank noisily. The water was bracingly cold, just what he wanted. He lifted his head at the sound of a little rustling in the clearing’s long grass and just caught sight of a disappearing rabbit tail. So he wasn’t alone after all, though it seemed the creatures were perhaps more wary these days of two-legged folk than they had been in the past. As well they should be.

Thinking of those who went on two legs reminded Frodo of his companions. They were thirsty too though they would have to settle for water instead of beer and the forest floor would have to make do as inn and bed for the night. Frodo stood up, his thirst sated for the moment though soon to return, brushed the dirt from his knees, and set off back through the trees to find Sam, Merry and Pippin.

He found them where he had left them, lounging under the eaves of the forest, each leaning against a tree trunk. He was just about to join them when Sam’s voice stopped him in his tracks. Sam sounded distressed and a little put out.

“I just can’t say no more, Mr. Merry. I’m sorry but that’s that,” Sam said.

“A fine co-conspirator you turned out to be,” Pippin said, snorting.

“There, there, Pip,” Merry said. “Sam’s said what he could. Though of course if he should choose to tell us more, anything he’d say wouldn’t go farther than the three of us right here. You have our word, Sam, right Pippin?”

Frodo held his breath as he watched Sam struggle with himself. Sam sat up straight, started to open his mouth and then leaned back against the tree trunk again, pressing his lips into a tight line. He shook his head. “You won’t get round me, Mr. Merry. I’ve given my word. I don’t like it neither but that’s the way it has to be.”

There was a tense silence that followed, with Merry, Pippin and Sam all avoiding each other’s gaze. It struck Frodo in his heart. Here he was in the safe midst of the Shire, three months away from leaving, and his business was already dividing his friends. Perhaps he should leave sooner, just leave on his own without even Sam. Perhaps it was better to do it sooner than later, when it would be even more painful, more difficult to leave all he knew. Maybe a clean break would be better than keeping up this charade of moving to Crickhollow and all that was going to entail, all the lies he would have to keep up in front of his dearest friends. Perhaps it was too much. He did not know. And what was all this about co-conspirators? He hadn’t heard that before. That bore investigating.

But he didn’t hear any more about it that day or in the days to come and it quickly left his mind once he returned to Hobbiton and busied himself with preparing to leave Bag End. Today it was Pippin who made him forget. 

“There you are, Frodo! Where did you go? We’ve been waiting for you,” Pippin said, jumping up after spying Frodo lurking behind a tree.

Frodo joined his friends. “I come bearing water … well, news of water,” he said with a grin. 

“Hooray!” Pippin cried. 

“Come on, then,” Frodo said. “It’s not far.”

“Lead on, cousin,” Merry said. “We will follow.”

***

Boromir was hot, tired and sore. Most of all, he was mortally thirsty.

And sad, too. He’d lost his horse two days earlier. That had hurt, and not just because it meant he’d have to go on foot thereafter as he sought Elrond Half-elven’s fabled Rivendell. 

It’s real, he told himself again as he struggled up a steep incline overgrown with thorny bushes that clung and scratched his skin even through his thick clothing. It’s not fabled. Fables aren’t real, are they? But Rivendell was real. He knew it, he had to know it. After all, people he’d met during his journey, and of course his father before them, had told him it was real. Hadn’t they? Too bad none of these chance-met people had given him actual directions other than a vague gesture to the north and the occasional ominous muttering that gave no encouragement that Boromir would find what he sought at the end of his road.

And today he was tired and sore and so very thirsty.

Odd to think that would be so, when only two days earlier he’d been caught in the crossing at Tharbad and his poor, beloved horse had been lost. He’d trained that horse from a foal. 

But that was two days ago. Today he was miles from Tharbad, moving on foot up the old road, stumbling every now and then on uneven fragments of ancient paving stones that were hidden among waving grasses and weeds. He kept his gaze moving, always scouting to the left and right and straight ahead, but his mind wandered, endlessly pondering the words of the riddle and the hints he’d heard of Rivendell as he’d traveled from Minas Tirith.

“Elvish wights. Beware of them, man of Gondor. They say the ones from the North are in league with the enchantress of Dwimordene.” That was from an old man just outside Edoras, where Boromir had stopped for food and news. Well, he’d gotten good stores of food. The news he could have done without, if you could even call such grim muttering news.

“Oh, all gone. Gone away to the West. At least so they say,” said a chance met traveler three days before Boromir came to Tharbad. 

Who were “they” Boromir wondered, grimacing as he wiped sweat from his brow. His clothes were heavy and the days had grown too warm for comfort. Yes, who were “they” people always mentioned?

Pah. Worthless. Needless to say, he would not be swayed by vague warnings. He would hold to his quest, keeping faith with the riddle and his father’s urging.

But oh, he was thirsty. He’d lost his water bottle along with his horse and he had not passed a stream or a pool since Tharbad.

Such were Boromir’s thoughts as he walked the uneven road, which was bending west as much as it continued north. Eventually, as the afternoon was turning toward evening, he spied a small track leading away from the main path. It was the first one he had seen since Tharbad, and he had no hesitation in taking it. 

The path angled to the north. It was narrow, the width of one good-sized man, and was bordered on either side by the same tall grass that grew by the main road Boromir had been following. He kept on the path for a good hour and began to regret taking it. The sun was setting when it widened into a small, neatly ordered clearing. 

At the center of the clearing there was a circle of rocks with the remains of a fire. To one side there was a small pile of wood and tinder. On the other side was a rough shed, really just three sides and a roof, to provide shelter to those in need. 

Boromir took all this in with a sweep of his eyes, but then he settled on the most welcome sight of all. There was a well and it included a bucket on a rusty chain. He ran to it, tears pricking his eyes. Yes, he was that thirsty, he was not ashamed to admit. 

Please, let there be water, he prayed as he let down the bucket. His spirits soared as he heard and felt the bucket slap water. He pulled up the bucket as quickly as he could, taking care not to spill its precious contents. His hands shook.

It was the clearest, coldest, most delicious drink of his life. 

Boromir was drinking his second bucket of water when a low chuckle startled him. 

“The water is good to a thirsty traveler, isn’t it?”

Boromir turned to face the man who emerged from the rough shelter. His hand went instinctively to his sword and gripped its handle tightly.

The man raised his hands in a gesture of peace. He spoke in a soft voice. “I have been the thirsty traveler more than once, my friend.” He nodded at the water bucket Boromir still held with one hand. “Go on. Drink your fill. It is cool and clean, as I well know.”

Boromir slowly released his grip on his sword and raised the water bucket. He drank again, keeping his eyes on the man.

The stranger was clad in dark clothes and long scuffed boots of leather. Though the summer evening still held the heat of the day, he wore a cloak, with the hood drawn low over his forehead so that Boromir could not see his face clearly. 

When Boromir had quenched his thirst, he held out the bucket to the man.

The man shook his head. “I’ve drunk already. Filled my water bottles.”

Boromir finally found his voice. “What is this place?”

The man looked around. “A remnant. This used to be a nice little village. Peaceful. Or so they say.”

Boromir snorted. “They. How many times have I heard that. Who are ‘they’?”

The man nodded. “Indeed.”

“Who are you?”

The man remained silent for a long while, then finally said, “A traveler.” 

“Where are you going?”

The man shrugged. “Here and there. And you?”

Boromir said eagerly, “I seek Imladris. Some call it Rivendell. Do you know where it is? I must find it and soon. I have been too long on the road already and lost my horse two days ago.”

“I have heard of it.”

“Many have heard of it. No one knows where it is. Do you?”

The man started to open his mouth but then did not speak immediately. Instead, he stood staring hard at Boromir. Boromir felt that gaze pierce him. He felt judged and did not much like it. Who was this ragged traveler to judge a son of Gondor?

Finally the man spoke, though as he did he returned to the shelter and, pulling out a pack, made ready to leave. “North. Make for the north. Do not follow the road any farther, it bends too far to the west for your needs. Keep to this path as far as it continues. It will take you some miles closer to journey’s end. Perhaps you will find Rivendell. Perhaps. Fare well.”

***

Blast. He’d counted on staying the night at the shelter. He was tired and that little lean-to had seemed a palace. He’d counted down the hours and minutes on his way there, knowing it was waiting for him, knowing there would be cool water and wood laid ready by his brother Rangers. And he had found it was so.

Aragorn made his way back to the road, kicking at the tall grass border every now and then, trying to vent a little of his frustration. 

You could have stayed. The man meant no harm.

Oh, really? You know that? And what was a man of Gondor doing that far from Minas Tirith? 

Looking for Rivendell. He told you so freely.

Which of course was strangest of all. Strange enough that a man from Gondor was that far from home in these dangerous days. 

Not just any man. You knew him from the horn he bore. You could have stayed and heard his tale.

Perhaps. It could have been a trap. Even though you knew him, true son of Gondor.

Aragorn would most likely never know whether it had been a trap. 

Maybe you will meet him in Rivendell. After all, you are headed that way yourself. Or at least you wish you were.

Enough. First to the Shire, to check on how things fare with the hobbits, and then north.

To home.

Yes. Home. Eventually.

Aragorn reached for his water bottle and drank sparingly. It would have to last a full day before he could refill his bottle so he would be careful with it. 

But oh it was good. 

***

“Fare well!”

Radagast’s voice came faintly back to Gandalf as he sat on the bank where he had found Radagast not an hour earlier. 

He was tired, he was mortally tired. 

I do not have the strength …

Sweat poured down his face and not just from the oppressive heat of the day. Before meeting Radagast he had not thought it so very hot. But now …

I do not think I have the strength to do this …

Gandalf sat for an hour by the road before he was able to rise and continue on his way. His mind was a blank. Each time he tried to force himself to think on the news Radagast had brought him, each time he tried to think through the implications of Nazgul on the hunt … well, his mind was a blank. It was too much to take in at the moment though what he had learned was not unexpected.

Get up, old fool … 

Yes, getting up would do for a first step. Therefore, Gandalf stood up, eventually. He stretched, wiped the sweat from his face with a fold of his old grey robe, and mounted his horse.

What to do …

Well, first things first. He was hungry and, even more, he was thirsty. Bree was but a few miles ride. 

Butterbur himself came out to greet Gandalf when he rode into the Pony’s yard.

“Welcome, welcome! Come inside, my old friend, and take some rest from the heat of the day. I do like summer days but sometimes they can sap your strength. You’d think I’d lose weight when it is so warm and me run off my feet … but come now, come inside. I’ve a nice beer that should revive you. Here, Bob, Nob, take our guest’s horse and see him fed and watered and brushed. He looks as tired as Gandalf. Come inside now.”

Well, third time was the charm, and with Butterbur’s repeated exhortation to come inside, the innkeeper finally turned and bustled up the steps and into the Pony, holding the door open.

Gandalf followed Butterbur into the Common Room and let himself be seated at a table by the hearth though thankfully no fire was lit on such a warm day. He lowered himself stiffly onto a bench and leaned against the wall gratefully. It was cooler inside and dim, just what he wanted after riding in the hot sun under the burden of Radagast’s news.

Butterbur stood before him, hands clasped. “That’s right, rest yourself, you look tired my friend, what have you been doing? You do too much! But now is the time to rest. One moment and I’ll bring a mug of my best. Half a moment even!”

Gandalf spoke for the first time since he’d ridden into the Pony’s yard. “No, some water to start with, if you please, Barliman. Just some water to start with.”

Butterbur raised his eyebrows but made no objection. In half a moment, back he came with a tall tankard filled to the brim with cool water.

Gandalf’s hands trembled with a mix of fatigue and eagerness as he drank, the water spilling a little down his beard. He did not care. He drank down that first tankard quickly and held it out. “Another, please.”

It took a third tankard before Gandalf felt his wits and strength returning. It seemed to him that he was like a parched plant luxuriating in a sudden, unexpected rain after a long drought, stems and leaves plumping with a welcome infusion of life and hope. It was just what he needed to revive himself enough to see his next steps laid out clearly before him.

That night, after a good hearty meal and more than one mug of the Pony’s excellent beer, Gandalf sat alone in his room. His hand shook a little again as he picked up the quill Butterbur had lent him. He dipped the nib into the pot of ink and began to write.

_Dear Frodo …_

***

Legolas and Tauriel were running full out. While still in the forest, they had gone more slowly, being careful to stay on the path and avoid tree roots, but once out from under Mirkwood’s eaves, they ran full out.

It felt good to do so. They ran side by side, silently at first, both smiling for the sheer pleasure of running freely under the summer sun through tall waving grass.

Really, Legolas thought at one point, why are you smiling? He and Tauriel exchanged a look and broke into laughter.

“We really shouldn’t be laughing, you know,” Legolas said without slackening his pace. “The situation is dire. We are not here for the pleasure of it.”

“True,” Tauriel said, laughing again.

“We let him escape.”

“He was crafty, we cannot deny that. How he got into contact with those Orcs …”

“I doubt we’ll ever know.”

“True. What we do know is your father is not happy.”

“Is he ever? These days?”

“Is anyone happy these days?”

They stopped then. They did not have to catch their breath for they were not tired. But they did stop a moment for the solemn turn their talk had taken seemed to call for it.

They stopped and looked around them, sea of green grass surrounding them, blue sky arching over them. The day seemed as pure and clean as though they had strayed into the Elder Days soon after the Sun and Moon had been set in the sky. But it was not so (and had not been so even then).

“Come,” Legolas said eventually. “We must go on. Do our part to try to lessen the evil of Gollum’s escape.”

They set off again, running for hours under the bright sun. They smiled as they ran. 

Finally they sighted their destination and slowed their pace, first to a jog and then a walk.

“Be careful,” Tauriel said. “He is not fond of visitors, or so I have heard. It has been many years since I have been this way. I have never met him though I think I once spied him in bear form.”

“We are not dwarves, we have nothing to fear.”

“I did not say we should fear him, only that we should be cautious. We need his help in tracking that wretched creature.”

Oaks heralded the approach of Beorn’s land, fine old grandfathers of trees. They stopped when they reached the first of them, then moved from tree to tree, running their hands lightly against their massive trunks in greeting, smiling again, this time in the delight of feeling each tree’s skin. 

Soon they began to cross carefully tended fields of clover—cockscomb first, then purple and finally pure white. They breathed deeply, inhaling the fresh scent. 

Tauriel said, “Do you think it true he still keeps animals as servants?”

In answer, Legolas pointed. “Look.”

From the far side of the field they were crossing, a delegation appeared. At least it seemed to be a delegation as the four white horses and two grey dogs were making purposely for the Elves, the horses trotting and the dogs walking at a more deliberate pace.

Legolas and Tauriel waited under the shade of an oak tree for their approach. The horses arrived first and bowed their heads in greeting. Legolas and Tauriel bowed in their turn, exchanging delighted glances with each other. The horses then stepped aside as the two dogs drew near. Each one carried a vessel in its mouth, a deep wooden bowl swinging from a metal handle. They held up their heads as if offering them to the Elves. Legolas took one and sniffed. Water. How thirsty he was! He had thought of nothing but pursuit since Gollum had escaped but now he became aware that he was hot and dusty and very thirsty. 

“Thank you,” Tauriel said as she accepted her bowl. Both she and Legolas then drank deeply. A year later Legolas tried to describe the savor of the water to the members of the Fellowship but all he could say was that it had been like drinking cool, clear clover-scented honey though it had been nothing but water. 

The two drank and drank until the bowls were empty. They felt the water sink into every part of their bodies, reviving them from the tiredness they had not even realized they were laboring under until they’d taken the bowls into their eager hands. 

One of the horses snorted and waved its head as though calling the Elves to follow it. 

Legolas said, “We are ready. Do we go to meet Beorn?”

The horse nodded its head vigorously.

Tauriel grinned. “What are we waiting for then? Lead on, friend horse!”

***

It was a solemn event, leave-taking from Erebor. The dwarves had labored for so long to regain their home and had sacrificed so much for it that no dwarf of Erebor gladly left his home, even for a pleasure trip.

But this journey was to be no pleasure trip. It was driven by urgent need and the fear that they had already left things too long.

The day was muggy and overcast. Gimli spent the hours before the leave-taking making sure everything was packed, that nothing needed was forgotten. So it was that he was hot and sweaty when he joined Gloin and they made their way to Dain’s private balcony.

Dain did not rise from his canopied seat when they approached. His voice was solemn.

“You are still resolved to go?”

Gimli nodded his head as Gloin spoke for both of them. “We would leave this minute. As it is, who knows if we will arrive in time?”

That didn’t sit right with Gimli. He struggled a moment with himself (who was he to gainsay his father), then said, “Best make the attempt than sit here and wait for that blasted Messenger to come again. Who knows who will come with him this time?”

“Peace, my son. I did not say we should not set out. But I must be honest about the possible outcome. Our lord would expect no less from me.”

Dain nodded, smiling at Gimli. “Your father speaks wisely. As do you, Gimli. Your words raise my heart. I have chosen well my envoy to Elrond of Rivendell. When do you leave?”

Gloin said, “At the rising of the sun. We are ready.”

“Then I can offer no more than my blessing and hopes that your journey to Rivendell be not overly hard.” Dain gestured to one of the guards at the door, who disappeared for a moment and then reappeared holding a large, bejeweled cup. He walked slowly to Dain and held it out, bowing low, taking care not to spill the contents.

Dain drank first, then passed the cup to Gloin, who passed it in his turn to Gimli. The water was cool and pure. Gimli only took a sip, being aware of the solemnity of the occasion, though even that sip was refreshing. He felt his tiredness slipping away for the moment and his confidence growing. He and Gloin would see this journey through, bearing home like precious jewels each word of counsel Elrond might give them. Surely they would go there and back again before the year ended, arriving home before the unwelcome Messenger came to assail Dain’s gates.

“May you walk safe paths and return home to us just as safely. May Durin’s stars watch over you.”

Gimli and Gloin lowered their heads and closed their eyes a moment, then took their leave without a word.

They left Erebor at dawn. 

***

**Epilogue**

**Shire Reckoning 1419, Near Midsummer, Minas Tirith**

 

“What’s this? Water? Surely we can do better!” Gimli said though he laughed as he said it.

“Begging your pardon, but our talk put me in mind of it,” said Sam as he set down the large pitcher of water on the dinner table set in the middle of Gandalf’s garden.

Frodo helped set out cups and Sam poured the water. “Quite right, Sam,” Frodo said, smiling.

When all had received a cup, Gandalf spoke, raising his cup. “To our dear Fellowship, long may we gather at times to share our tales and quench our thirst.”

They all drank and were silent a moment, each again busy with his own thoughts. Jut as before, it was Pippin who broke the silence.

“Were you really so downhearted, Gandalf? It’s hard to believe.”

“Oh, you can well believe it, Pippin. After Radagast found me and told me about the Black Riders, I nearly despaired for a time. It was one of the darkest hours I ever experienced as I sat there on that bank, waiting for the strength to go on my way. I only began to come to grips with things once I reached Bree and Butterbur brought me that water. Good thing, water.”

They all murmured in agreement and then drank some more.

Sam asked, “Strider, did you really not tell Boromir who you were? Even though you knew who he was?”

Aragorn grinned ruefully. “Really, Sam. Perhaps I should have but I’m afraid I’d been hunted long enough by the Enemy that I was suspicious even of Boromir of Gondor.” He nodded at Faramir. “Forgive me. I know it was ill done.”

Faramir said, “There is nothing to forgive, my liege. You did as you thought best in dangerous times and I see no fault in it. Indeed, it heals my heart to hear more of Boromir’s journey to Imladris.”

“Good. And I will tell you that Boromir did not hold it against me once we met again in Rivendell and we had the chance to talk more of his journey.”

Faramir’s eyes glistened a little. “Thank you for telling me that. It eases my heart even more.”

The stars shone brightly in the night sky while the friends continued to talk of their adventures from just last summer, strange though it still seemed to them that only one short year had passed and in that year the world had changed. While they pondered each tale in its turn, they always came back to the story Legolas had told. The hobbits and Faramir were especially fascinated by the animals.

“Truly, I had read of these creatures in Bilbo’s book, but I don’t think he ever talked about them to me,” Frodo said, marveling. “Really, I don’t think he did, not sure why, they’re really the most interesting part of his story!”

“I agree,” said Faramir. “Did they talk, Legolas? You did say they talked, am I right?”

Legolas laughed. “Not in words that you could hear though now you speak of it, it seemed like they did. They really were marvelous.”

Gimli said, “And if an elf says something is marvelous, then I think you can safely agree that it is.” He stopped and stared into his water cup. “Huh.”

“What?” asked Frodo.

“I don’t think my father ever talked about the animals either. I wonder why.”

They all puzzled over this for a while. Eventually they came to the conclusion that talk of servant animals who could walk on two legs and who seemed to speak might not be received as truth. As a matter of fact, saying such things might earn the speaker the label “cracked.” They all laughed then, shaking their heads in understanding.

Aragorn said, “I believe we have all seen things in the last year that pass normal understanding.”

Frodo chanted, “Barrow wights and the Dead and talking trees and mirrors that show things that are …”

Sam continued, “… and things that might be and might never be …”

Merry picked up from Sam, “… and Oliphaunts, don’t forget the Oliphaunts.”

“Never will!” said Sam.

Pippin said, “Don’t forget the badgers of Bindbole Wood!”

“Did you really see badgers?” Legolas asked.

“We did though we had to be very quiet for far too long a time. I didn’t much like that part.”

They all laughed then. Eventually, after they had drunk some more and talked even more of both the marvelous and the everyday, Aragorn and Faramir stood and made ready to leave for the night. But before they left, Aragorn raised his cup and proposed a final toast of the evening. “To good friends and cool, clean water that quenches the thirst and gladdens the heart.”

“To good friends!”

And with that final toast, all made their way home and to bed, each smiling as they fell asleep with the memory of the night’s meal and talk and the water that blessed all in peaceful Minas Tirith.


End file.
